


Prise de Fer

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fencing, Molly is a BOSS, Sherlock is an incorrigible flirt, so is Molly tho, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29351622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: Molly Hooper surprises Sherlock far more than he imagined. There is far more to the 'society darling' than he imagined. Watson is mortified.
Relationships: Warstan - Relationship, sherlolly
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82





	Prise de Fer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SammyKatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SammyKatz/gifts).



The clang of well-fashioned steel rang in his ears. Sherlock Holmes did not frequent fencing schools, far too many peers that he hated to waste time having to converse with. The need to speak with a witness in a murder was the only thing that convinced him to come at all to the facility. In fact he was positive the witness he was seeking was in fact the murderer. Watson knew this as well, and worried that their presence would alarm the killer and move him to take drastic measures.

“A school full of victims,” Watson said quietly as they stood in the entryway. “You’re sure it’s Millington? That he’s here?”

“Positive,” Sherlock nodded. “I’ll go about finding him. Inspector Lestrade is on his way, for the time being, I will make my move. You clear the building,” Sherlock murmured quietly. “Get the children out first. Don’t put anyone’s back up; just see that it’s cleared.”

“Right,” Watson said, heading to the first classroom he could find. Sherlock headed straight upstairs, ignoring the secretary at the desk. On light feet, he came upon He came upon an empty hall, the sound of swords crossing echoed.

“Good! Again! Feel that- there, right along the forte, good. Don’t take your energy back, push it along the length of the sword, let your foil do the work- better- think like a man! Don’t let your silly emotions rule you!”

Sherlock smirked. Of course Millington would be in. A sword master would not miss a class, certainly not when rich young boys were happily lining his pockets. When he came around to stand in the doorway, he was shocked to find that rather than some gilded lordling spending his father’s money on a useless skill, but a woman. It was none other than Molly Hooper! Molly Hooper fencing in a gentlemen’s school, taught by the man he was about to convict for murder. If that were not shocking enough, as he watched quietly from the doorway, he was surprised to find that she was rather good, terribly good in fact. Despite her skirts (the hem of which had been raised to her ankles so her master could see her footwork), she moved easily. Limber and supple, she met every attack the sword master tried until suddenly he stepped back.

“Pause, a moment, Miss Hooper,” Millington said, breathless. He gestured to the door. “We have a visitor.” Sherlock blinked, remembering suddenly he was not here to ogle Miss Hooper, but to finish a case. Millington regarded him, already guessing why the World’s Only Consulting Detective was there.

“Lord Millington, I am afraid I must ask you to put away your foil and step away from Miss Hooper,” Sherlock said.

Molly glanced between the two of them. “Lord Millington, what is this about? Mister Holmes, what’s he done?”

“Don’t make a fuss, Holmes,” Millington said. He moved carefully, and Sherlock stepped further into the room, hoping to gain space between the sword master and Miss Hooper. Millington’s eyes flashed, but his body remained at ease, setting the foil in the rack. He leaned against the wall.

“Mister Holmes, what has he done?” Molly repeated. Sherlock spared her a glance, before returning his gaze to Millington.

“He’s committed murder, Miss Hooper; you recall I have been working on the case involving the Turner children and their mother.” Molly turned to Lord Millington.

“You killed them.” It wasn’t a question.

His Lordship turned to Sherlock, lifting his chin. “You have no proof.”

Sherlock moved with purpose, coming to the middle of the piste as he spoke: “The gags you stuffed into the children’s mouths laced with laudanum to put them to sleep, rather than leave them with the bodies or burn them, you tossed them out of the carriage five miles from where you left the corpses, Mrs. Turner’s dressing gown tie, covered in her blood, contained traces of your hair as well as threads from the rope you tied her with, which we found in the linen cupboard of your rooms at your club, and letters between yourself and Mrs. Turner, letters containing her wish for you to support her children as they were also half yours, your flat refusal, and also letters you took from Mrs. Turner containing the threats you carried out should she pursue the matter. Should I go on, or has Miss Hooper heard enough?”

“You killed those children?” Molly asked quietly, horrified. Millington looked at her, eyes wide.

“They would have ruined me, my reputation-”

“They were _children_ ,” she interrupted. “You killed them.”

“If I did I am sorry,” Millington finally burst out. “I am! But it would have ruined me, my reputation, and do you think their mother would have remained quiet? She would have used me-“

“None of that matters now, Lord Millington, the police are on their way. You feared ruination by Mrs. Turner, it seems she was your downfall in the end-“

“Mister Holmes-“ Molly interrupted, her voice was quiet but determined, Sherlock glanced at her, hearing the warning in her tone. He turned back to Lord Millington, whose hand was on the hilt of a rapier.

“Do be serious, Millington,” Sherlock scoffed. “Will you come quietly, or will you make a fool of yourself-“ The blade was uncovered in a moment, the point at Sherlock’s throat. Molly thrust herself between him and the blade.

“Fight me,” her eyes were like fire, she stood fast. Millington chuckled.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You threaten an unarmed, untrained man,” she spat out.

“I should hate to humiliate you,” Millington said, though he did not seem to believe his own excuse. Molly lifted her chin.

“If you are so certain of success why hesitate? Surely a woman cannot be too difficult to disarm.” The tip of the blade still rested at Sherlock’s collar. Millington studied her, shoulders squared; the blade could easily pierce Sherlock and slice her throat in one stroke. In a single breath he stepped back, gesturing for her to arm herself. She looked from Sherlock to Millington, and then walked to the rapiers, taking down one and hefting it, testing its weight. She tried several times until she found one suitable to her. Satisfied, she crossed to the piste, Millington moving backwards into position. Sherlock stepped out of the way, head still reeling from Miss Hooper coming to his defense. How did he suddenly become the damsel in distress?

If he had been surprised by her ease with the foil, it was nothing compared to her prowess with a rapier. The engagement began, not as fiercely as Sherlock had thought it might. They seemed to be testing each other out, despite their knowledge of the other’s skill. Millington was content in fiddling about, but it was not enough yet for Molly. Miss Hooper was determined, and her ease put Millington off. He stepped back.

“Breaking ground so soon?” she asked, her eyes flashed, though she put up a brave face her voice trembled slightly, from fear or nervousness, perhaps rage, Sherlock did not know, but it spurned her on. Millington ground his teeth, lunging forward. His sword met hers, the tang of the blades ringing, and Molly gripped the hilt, feeling her whole arm shaking. She was not used to her sword master using so much pressure. Seeing her wince, Millington smirked.

“This is not a competition, Miss Hooper, usual laws do not apply, and I may use 'brutality’ if I see my chance. I shall not warn you again.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” she gritted, and forced him back. One hand clutching her skirts so her feet could move, the other positioned outwards, her wrist loose as she met Millington’s blade every time. They moved from the piste, now circling the room. This was never a match; rules of staying on the strip did not apply.

“I should tell you we do not stop for the police,-“ Millington said, he did not take his eyes from his opponent. “If Mister Holmes is agreeable, a sword master never leaves a duel incomplete.”

“And you would be the last to practice bad etiquette,” Molly said. Sherlock found himself nodding, almost mesmerized by her. Here he had been under the assumption that she was a timid society mouse. Here instead stood a lioness! She used the styles of the greatest masters, Bonetti’s defense kept her safe from harm,

“Lazy,” Millington ground out, again attacking. “Using the drunken Italian’s style, are we?”

“Only when you’re going to be a brute, using Capo Ferro like that,” she tossed back. Her breathing was easy, her grip sure. Her wrist was strong, easily defusing his blows. “Too upset to practice your Thibault,” she teased, moving easily and Millington bared his teeth, giving a shout in response, bolstering his attack. “Logic…and…geometry…use your brains you stupid clot, don’t let your weak emotions rule you, think like a man!” Molly tossed out the sword master’s own words. She was almost laughing! Millington caught his footing and found a mark, slashing, he caught the sleeve of Molly’s gown, cutting through the fabric. She felt it pierce her skin, blood soaking her sleeve. She was aware of the sound of running feet, of Sherlock telling Doctor Watson to stand back, more voices behind them. Just in her peripheral vision she saw Inspector Lestrade and several men gawping at the door, but she had no time or desire to look back at them. She was bleeding, and when she lowered her sword as per usual rules of ‘fight to first blood’, Millington attacked again. The men in the corner all lurched forward, but Molly had her rapier in place, forcing Millington back.

“You told me no favors,” Millington excused himself, pleased he had shocked her. 

“So I did-“ her ginger was up now, and she pushed away all thoughts of her arm throbbing. Her master’s rapier had sliced deeply through her bicep, and she thought there would be a scar that could not be hidden. Her mother would be furious.

Swords clashed, the room fairly ringing, the opponents breathing heavily now. Sweat trickled down Millington’s face, he was agitated, and Molly’s breathless taunts, her accusatory deductions of his technique and his guilt all ran through his head. He felt himself weaken. He could see just in his line of sight the row of police waiting for him. He would lose his title, he would be convicted of murder and hang. He would rather die by the sword than hang. His instincts kept him moving, but his mind was not properly focused. He felt himself slip into a circular parry, and he realized with sickening dread he had fallen into her trap. It was a game to see who would stop first, the first to do so would be defenseless. With a flick of the wrist, he felt her change direction. He had barely grasped this, when he felt the tip of her blade circle his until it met his hilt, driving him back. His arm pinned to his trunk, handle pressed to his gut. He whined, wrist contorted uncomfortably, clearly in pain, but she was not finished, a quick movement and his sword flew out of his grasp. The rapier clattered along the scuffed floors. Her final blow was to return the mark he’d given her, along his own right bicep. Mark for mark, now it was even. Blood drawn on either side, she let her blade rest at his chin.

Lord Millington was disarmed. He fell to his knees, the tip of Molly’s blade following him, forcing his chin up.

“Please,” he pleaded. She understood his wish.

“You did me no favors,” she answered, her voice quietly echoing in the still room. “Why should I?” He lowered his head. Lestrade nodded and the police rushed forward, crowding past Molly to Lord Millington. Her opponent defeated, she lowered her sword at last, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A hand came over hers and she started, half-raising the rapier again. She relaxed, seeing it was Sherlock.

“Doctor Watson, will you have a look at Miss Hooper,” he asked and the good doctor bustled over her.

“I need better light.”

“We’ll take her to Baker Street,” Sherlock decided. “You can clean up there,”

“Thank you,” she murmured. Her gait was not as smooth as it usually was, and Sherlock offered his arm in support. It was not until her knees buckled that he lifted her into his arms, tutting her when she began to protest.

“You should know better than to duel a master while corseted,” he answered. “Hinders proper intake of breath, smart figure be damned.” John turned beet red.

“Holmes!” Only a stifled giggle was heard from Miss Hooper, and Watson merely shook his head, glaring as Sherlock smirked, clearly pleased with himself.

* * *

**221b Baker Street**

Sequestered into the parlor, propped up on the couch, Molly Hooper unbuttoned the top of her gown, now quite ruined from Millington’s sword. Not only was the sleeve drenched in blood and ripped beyond repair, the bodice itself spoke of how often the tip of his blade had gone through the fabric.

“You see why I duel corseted, Mister Holmes,” Molly said, when Sherlock took the offending garment, poking his fingers through the holes. John again coughed, red in the face.

“Oh do relax, Watson,” Sherlock chortled. “Mary should get a jolly kick out of this. Vicious murderer defeated by female fencing student!”

“She’s a twelve inch gash on her arm! It’s half a centimeter deep!” This only made Sherlock and Molly giggle harder. “You’re both mad, the pair of you!” Watson’s voice rose in pitch.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, and forced her smile back. “It’s the excitement wearing off,”

“Don’t apologize, you were breathtaking today,” Sherlock said. The sudden serious tone in his voice made both Watson and Molly stop and turn. Molly flushed, smiling the tiniest of smiles. John rolled his eyes, bowing his head over the gash in her arm.

“You’ll need stitches, and I’m afraid it will leave a scar,”

“Good,” Molly said and settled into the couch, taking hold of a cushion as the needle and thread pierced her flesh. “It’s proof a woman can do a man’s job, and do it well.”

“You realize if your mother gets wind of this, it will be the end of your time spent anywhere near Holmes or myself,” Watson warned.

“Then we had best be sure that she never finds out. She doesn’t even know about the fencing.”

“How do you manage then?” Watson asked, frowning as he stitched her up.

“Isn’t it obvious, John?” Sherlock asked. “She saves her pin money, more than enough for the lessons’ fee, tells her mother she’s off with some ninny of a friend and goes about her merry way.”

“Mother is hardly observant,” Molly agreed.

“Then what do we say when she wonders why you can’t elevate your arms, or when she sees the bandage at dinner?”

“Plenty of dinner gowns have sleeves to hide the bandage, and a lady never ‘elevates her arms’, Doctor Watson,” Molly answered primly. He only shook his head, the points of his mustache turning up as he chuckled. “There, that should hold,” he wound gauze around and around her arm until he was satisfied. “I can call tomorrow, to change the bandage, it will need to be dressed every day the rest of this week, and then after we’ll see if it can be lessened to every two days, to stave off infection.”

“I’d better come here,” Molly said. “Mother would be suspicious, and the less my father knows, the better, it isn’t that he’d be furious, he’d just worry so.”

“How will you manage?” Sherlock asked with a frown.

“I will come calling on Mrs. Hudson this week,” Molly shrugged. “She and I get on very well. I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon for tea, Doctor Watson will change my bandages, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Excepting that it seems odd a young woman visiting a bachelor’s housekeeper,” Watson replied.

“What’s so odd about that?”

“Why is that odd?” Sherlock and Molly both spoke at once then turned to the other, surprised. Watson sat back, flicking his gaze from Molly to Sherlock.

“I’ll tell Mary to stop by as well…” he said, and got to his feet. “Holmes, for god’s sake, find the poor girl something to cover herself with. I’m going to wash my hands. Miss Hooper, I’ll see you to my house for the evening, Mary will be glad of the company, and the guest room has been empty far too long.”

“I shouldn’t like to put you out,” she began.

“You’re in no condition to go home,” Sherlock stated, returning from the hall closet. John, seeing the parlor door was left open, went to the kitchen to wash his instruments and clean up.

Sherlock stepped closer to her, drawing a soft dressing gown about her frame. The collar was quilted velvet, the lining was silk. The whole of it smelled of pipe tobacco, along with notes of a gentleman’s cologne. As he tied it about her waist, he caught her pressing her nose to the collar, making a memory of the scent. Again, Sherlock found himself carefully drawing breath so near to Molly Hooper.

“We’ll send your family a note you’re staying at a friend’s,” he said quietly and she lifted her head, looking up to meet his gaze. “A maid can bring you a bag.” She nodded mutely. “I did mean what I said,” he went on. “You were breathtaking this afternoon.”

“So only my fencing skills have caught your eye,” she said, moving to step away from him.

“No, Miss Hooper, there you are wrong. They were a surprise, I always miss something. I was aware of your attraction to me, I deduced you truly do have a fondness for my line of work, not merely because it involves me, but the act of solving a murder piques your interest. I was remiss in dismissing you as a mere darling of society, content to sit on her heels while the world revolves around her. You are all fire and sweetness, and Miss Hooper if you will pardon me, I should very much like to kiss you.” He bent his head, only to be stopped by her finger pressed against his lips.

“On one condition,” she said, her voice low. He opened his eyes to find her only inches from him.

“Name it.”

“It will not be the last,” he smirked down at her.

“Still dueling for the upper-hand, are we?”

“It’s called prise de fer, ‘attempt to control the opponent’s blade’, Mister Holmes, do you concede?”

“Whole-heartedly,” he breathed and ducked his head, closing the distance at last between them.


End file.
